


Thank You

by zombiejuicer



Category: Spiderman - Fandom, Spiderman: Into The Spiderverse
Genre: Canon Related, Eventual Romance, F/M, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, side project by yours truly!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2019-09-28 16:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17186615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombiejuicer/pseuds/zombiejuicer
Summary: He had caught you, fair and square. But you had to say something before he let you go. Then you had to go back and say something more.





	1. I’ll Be Seeing You

**Author's Note:**

> I recently saw the Spiderverse and I fell in love with Noir! The fact that Nic Cage voices him, one of my all time favorite actors, really elevated his character. I just had to write a little something. I may continue if I have the time soon.

“That convincer’s gonna have a hard time convincing me- sorry to say." He sounds borderline monotone as he towers over you, tone only mildly amused as the small pistol shakes in your hand, muzzle pointed at himself. A large gloved hand quickly reaches down and snags it from you by the barrel, grip almost entirely covering the damn gun, and you immediately let go. No resistance. Like maybe you were relieved he didn't make you test your mettle. He doesn't say a word as he cracks open the cylinder and you see your last three bullets hit the wet ground. "Seen too many of 'em to be shocked when someone throws lead, lately." He sounds tired.

Your left hand immediately flies to your misconstrued shirt hem, a nervous habit. You're fully aware of your predicament, cold seeping through your clothes against the hard brick wall of an alley's end in the bitter night. You were caught. Any one as plain as day could see that. And you knew what Spiderman did, typically, to lawbreakers.

"If I were any less of a man, I'd be calling up the big house now." His drawling timbre startled you into attention and away from your terrified train of thought. His trenchcoat seemingly flaps, trapped in a nonexistent alley breeze. He was standing still- that couldn't be right, though, could it?

"But it doesn't take a detective to see you're not a criminal. Get up." He cocks his head slightly to the right, an urge to get a move on. He hardly thought you a danger- your one saving grace he had pocketed, of no use to you anymore without bullets trying to persuade him you were criminally-minded. If he had any other reason to believe you were the hardboiled type, you'd already be incapacitated. The fact your hand shook in the presence of said firearm was all he needed to see. More heart than head. He wished he could say the same.

You scramble upwards, and notice how his goggles glint by the light of a nearby streetlamp. You were thankful the good detective was showing mercy, and by that fact you wouldn't disobey.

You're nervously sweating, despite the cold, and you realize how much you missed the jacket you ditched a block or so back. When you were being chased, the noises of thin streaks of web through the air got gradually closer- then one had caught that particular article of clothing, and you dropped it just as fast as you dropped that hot meal you stole. You did think yourself typically a good person- hoped you were- but everyone has moments of weakness. You were young, didn't have much experience in the workforce, but even you knew times were tougher than ever. The Depression was leaving its damned mark on just about every soul. You were driving yourself crazy eating on just donation canned goods, and your factory job was testing your mettle more so than holding a gun at your city's own superhero ever could.

"I won't say anything if you don't." Pity in his voice, your insides coil with slight guilt. He snaps you out of your next reverie, and your eyes go to him immediately. His hands are now resting inside his pockets (where your gun was, you thought with resounding annoyance), and he seemingly was at ease now. But you knew better than anything that looks could be deceiving. You'd be hard pressed to believe at any given moment he wasn't analyzing his surroundings with that notorious detective's eye. You began to chew your lip.

"Just try not to make it a habit."

There's a resounding silence as he eyes you- measuring you up one last time. No more funny business, he hopes. Maybe under better circumstances he'd go in with the charm on a pretty dame such as yourself, but he can't help feeling like you just might be in a vulnerable place this evening. He was too much of a troubled heart for that sort of thing, anyways.

Your lips part, before he turns away you can't help but say something. You need to say something.

"Thank you." There's a moment of minute surprise between you- him never hearing your voice before this moment, and you surprised on just how freely you gave it to him.

He laughs- a dry bark that takes you by surprise. He gives a sly two-finger salute as he heel-turns around and begins to plod off, dress shoe-steps echoing throughout the grimy, dark alley.

"I'll be seeing you." The trenchcoat never ceases it's drifting in the cold city wind as he walks out of the alley.

You'd be seeing him.


	2. Returning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You had found him again. This time, of your own volition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it turns out I wanted to continue this much sooner than probably necessary. Thank you for those who commented, it really means a lot as an author who’s first time really publishing a work is this! ^^;

He looks up from the bleary depths of his drink to see your large, worried eyes boring into his own. 

Figured he’d see you again. 

Stresses of the day sagged on his shoulders, and the fight he had finished made his bones ache. The creaminess of his drink, thick condensation on the sides showing just how long he was contemplating his soul, fate, and everything in between inside a tiny glass, left a bittersweet tang. He wasn’t sure if he could handle the emotion your eyes were conveying to him, not today. 

But he would manage. Spiderman always did. He breathes in, breathes out, and looks squarely back.

“Came back for an autograph?” He started, reserved and dry. Like an extra coat, hung up for a rainy day. Testing the waters to see what was on your mind.

You didn’t move, didn’t say a word, soul hard in your own determinations. He could see by your face- it wasn’t an autograph you’d come to find, here. His hand leaves the glass’s sides, now palm-up against the edge of the wooden countertop. 

This local dive he frequented, he swore up and down over the quality in which his drink of choice was made. He waved a hand casually, signalling for you to sit. You sat quickly, avoiding his eyes. There was an intense festering of emotions inside you, and you felt as if they’d come bursting forth at any moment. The sights, sounds and smells of just this tiny bar were bordering on too much for your brain. 

“Try an egg-“  
“This is your fault.” You both slighted away from  
your barstools to look at eachother, himself casually surprised in the ferocity of your tone. It wasn’t the worst he had heard. His head tilts questioningly, and you seize the invitation to continue with an iron grip.

“I realize what I did wasn’t right, I do- but you, you,” Your hands are near-gripping the bar ledge now, your sharp tone painfully opposite of your near-teary face. Eyes watery but unwavering, they stay glued to the dips and rolls of the dark-grey wooden grain of the countertop.   
“That gave you no right to-” You take a shuddery breath. “To infect me with your Spiderman-sickness. No right at all.”

The few grimy patrons of this shady, backend bar all turn to look at Spiderman, his head blown back and form draped slack over the counter as he laughed. 

“This is serious!” You pressed.

“I-“ You sniff. “I can’t go to work, the noises are so harsh, and my hand’s begun to stick to things, and I can’t even, when I want to eat, the smell is nauseating..” You drift into silence, only looking up when his noise dies as well. He seems mildly perplexed- as much as he can, with no facial features to prove it to you.

“There’s a lot of things I can do, but I can’t make you this kind of sick.” He starts. It’s not condescending, but rather, understanding. Your cracked voice makes him fall back into a time when he first had the symptoms. His brain screamed at him for days. The mildest of whites he couldn’t bear to look at, and the buzzing of streetlamps was way too much to bear. He began working at night, to alleviate most of the pain, and then the habit just stuck. Villains may sleep, but Peter Parker did not, the public came to know.

You are shocked into a thicker silence. If it wasn’t him, then who? You could’ve sworn your theory to be true- why else would he have let you go, if not to enact some twisted karmatic wrath upon you as your truer punishment? You wouldn’t put it past the mysterious Spiderman. The bartender, a foot or so away, begins to wipe a glass with a grey-toned cloth. The whine of wet fabric against glass sends your head into your crossed arms against the cold wood bar. You sniff more, dangerously close to tears. What would you do now? What could you do?

A warm, gloved hand comes to rest upon your back, fingers digging tamely against the curve of your shoulder blade. Very slight- but a meaningful sign of comfort. If your head wasn’t shrieking, you’d be excited to be in such close proximity to your hero. 

He wasn’t touchy. By any means. Not at all. But, he was well familiar in the means of comforting the disturbed. And you certainly seemed like you needed comforting. 

“Look, kid.” He murmurs, trying not to send your head careening further. You can feel the vibration of his rough voice through his hand. You get a strange sense- an electrifying tingle in the back of your brain, saying he was the same. Just like you.

“It sounds like you got what I got. A peculiar spider in a mean mood, and a bite somewhere on you to match.” He wasn’t particularly privy to sharing his origin story, but there wasn’t much other choice to calm you, it seemed to him. He leaned in closer, meeting your eyes as you propped yourself up on an arm. This was now a matter of privacy.

“Do you remember getting bit?”

As a matter of fact, you did. 

“Well, I..” You trailed off, trying to remember. Your apartment was shoddy. Shared with others, as were most factory-workers. Bugs tended to be in abundance, as well as an ever-present draft, and leaky faucet. 

Gentle shame laced your voice. “I wouldn’t be surprised if I had gotten bitten by your brand of spider. We’ve got sort of a.. A bug problem. In my home.” You lift up your forearm. Near the elbow joint a massive bite lay prize to your skin. It looked to be a couple days old, just starting to heal. Other intermittent bites peppered around it as well, but none more noticeable than that one.

He had heard the shame in your voice. All the bites, your seemingly-tough job you quoted consistently, the tired shaded bags under your eyes- your picture began to be painted before him, better than most Renaissance artists’. A feeling began to bubble forth, underneath his thick-walled heart. Fondness. Respect for your struggle. The hand was removed from your shoulder, suddenly more self conscious of his movements.

“Aces. That seems to be your ticket.” The spark in his voice was certainly indicative of a detective- one that had finally cracked the case.

His tune wasn’t music to your ears, by any means. What use is the knowledge if you can’t find the solution? Now, your shoulders began to sag from stress. 

“Can you fix it?”

He paused thoughtfully. Took up his drink again, finishing off the egg cream with a resounding, throaty swallow.

“Unfortunately, my knowledge is all wet.” Your shoulders sag further.

“It sounds like you better come with me, though.” He pauses, putting a dollar on the counter, and nodding towards the bartender. 

“I think I can count on someone who can.”


	3. Trends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You struggle on the trek towards the one person who can help. Being a chivalrous hero, he tries to help, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little in-between for the bigger chapter I’m writing, next! I think little acts of chivalry are cute, and incredibly in character! Thank you again for the swell comments, they really give me so much inspiration! <3!

He wasn’t expecting a miraculous transition. The person he suspected would only be able to help so much- but he was hoping a woman’s touch would be better than a calloused, hardened man’s- like his own. You nearly collapsed at a car swerving and a horn honking by the sidewalk in which you both were walking, and the cold, chilly wind rendered you a shivering mass right beside him. Your arms twisted over themselves, palms groping your forearms hoping to collect some semblance of body heat. He chewed his lip. Thinking.

“Cold?” He inquired, somewhat stiffly. Unused to initiating. It was late at night, and the temperature dropped to match. Though he never really experienced sensitivity to temperature, he didn’t doubt it was quite real for you. Your teeth chattered as real as anything. His hand went up and adjusted his hat, avoiding eye contact with you, for fear his question may have been too blunt for someone he barely knew. 

Your teeth were clacking, and you dragged your light coat nearer to yourself. The same one you retrieved after that incident, a couple weeks back. You began to wear it again- after, of course, cleaning the sticky webbing off. His voice drilled into your brain- you didn’t mind that he spoke, but you wished it didn’t worsen your incessant, severe headache. If you weren’t burdened with such an unlucky situation, you may have even been charmed by your city’s hero’s bassy sound. Would it be categorized as a migraine, now, you wondered?

“Yes, but, I’m okay. Really.” The voice exiting was near mute for fear of rattling your head more, and was hoarse to boot. You hadn’t had a good, long drink of water in awhile. You also didn’t want to overstep any more boundaries- he was already going out of his way to assist you, and bring you to a- well, a spider specialist? He shouldn’t feel obligated to do any more. You kept walking, trying to keep pace with his large steps. Up close, he was much more taller than you realized- probably why all the baddies shook in their boots whenever he caught them. Broad shouldered, too. Good for carrying dames away from fires on the daily, you assumed. Or whatever Spiderman truly did. 

“You must take me for a fool- even a twit can see you’re getting sicker than a city dog.” Your eyebrows raised at the sincere offense his tone had taken- it was as if you attacked his ego, claws fully bared.

That, indeed, was the straw that broke his back- Spiderman wouldn’t be caught with a lack of chivalry by anyone. He vehemently shuffled around for a moment as you both made tracks, removing his long trench coat, cape and tail gusted by the ever present city-wind. He turned to you and outstretched his arms to fly the coat over your shoulders, tugging it so your own shoulders fit swell between the arms. You shook your head quickly, to start- if you were cold, he certainly must’ve been too. You couldn’t accept this from him.

“No, I don’t need it, really-“

“Don’t blow your wig- I’ve got plenty clothes underneath.”

“Truly, I’m okay- I can manage,” You insisted, your hand moving to a sleeve, beginning to tug it off, abashed at the move he had made. It was namely something only a dizzy with a dame did, a guy most definitely having caught feelings. Never had it happened to you, and you were much too humble to accept, even if under an extremely different situations. The societal convention surrounding the coat made you blush pink.

His own large, gloved hand came to rest on your shoulder, again. This time a gesture of finality- still in the same spot it had been at the bar. Any longer, he noted, and it’d have to start paying rent. Ha. 

“-And so can I, doll. Please- I insist.” His voice wasn’t argumentative. A casual plea. He couldn’t stand to see you shiver any longer- not knowing what else what happening to your insides, cells mutating and multiplying, every step you both took. 

Your hand was removed, finally, and you waved surrender, tugging the coat closer. It nearly swamped you due to his own immense stature, you noticed as you kept your eyes on the ground-no street lamps to blind you there. It kept dipping into odds and ends puddles, and you worked hard to try and avoid them with your feet.

“You’re sure you want your trenchcoat soaked, Spiderman?”

He paused for a moment. It would seem as if in the midst of the growing history between you both, he had neglected to tell you his name- no pseudonyms. He mused in silence for a moment, weighing his thoughts. What if you were just using this as an excuse to gather information on his whereabouts, his family, and his name? Working for Oscorp? What if you were entirely faking- and planned to kill his own aunt and himself upon entering her home? He looked down at you- your gaze answering back, puzzled as he seemed oddly morose in response to your slight joke. He took in the fever sweat covering your forehead, eyes looking at him through slight pain, and your hands gripping his coat, white knuckled. 

His shoulders and neck became lax, as he continued to look at you. He had to remember- he had felt the sense when you approached. You were just like him.

“Peter.”

“You- what?” You stopped mid sentence.

“It’s Peter.” He paused. “Figured you oughta know, whatever happens.”

You’re silent for a moment. He really trusted you with this? All sorts of criminal agencies fought for this sort of information on the daily, and here he was, giving it to you, all wrapped up in an emotional bow like on Christmas morning. You had to say something- again. You started to notice a trend.

“I, well,” You stuttered out quietly, still in apprehension of your head, “Thank you. For trusting me.”

He is silent as you both walk forward. The streets are nearly silent. His trenchcoat still flaps mildly in the midst of the city air, and his hands are thrust in his pants’ pockets. It’s a rare moment of serenity, betwixt the both of your new lives.

“Don’t mention it.”


	4. Continued

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So... I can explain. Well, hopefully I'll be updating a little more regularly now. College has started up, and I'm excited to share the things I'm learning! As always, thank you for the kudos and comments.

Your dirty clothes felt downright unnatural on the pristine tile you’d found yourself crumpled up on. Tears began to fall- you had tried to stay strong, of course, as always, but the day you had grappled through finally won over your ailing mind. Spiderman, your Spiderman, stood there helplessly, wringing his hat in his hands like doing so might whisk him away from this house, this person, this situation. You. A hissed cry eked its way through your teeth. The noise had just made your head hurt harder, and the gentle sobs made your brain ache with such intensity you felt as if you’d still feel it years from now. There was a tense silence from the house- he had led you here, into an establishment dimly lit with candles, only permitting so little light through your blurred eyes that everything melded together into fuzzy shapes of grays and gradients as the rain pounded relentlessly against the window. It was late, and all you wanted was safety. To be near your bed, your clothes, something with any more familiarity that you were finding here, left alone on the cold hallway floor to bleed out your tears onto a trench coat ten sizes too big, that somehow made you feel even colder.

“Am I to believe that we’re starting a wayward home for young persons, right in my foyer, Spiderman?” The tone was affectionately chiding, matronly, coming from a shadowed portion of the house- what you would come to see later as adjacent to the kitchen.

Through your blurred eyes, you saw a middle aged woman coming upon you from the shadows of the house like a hawk diving mid-flight, charcoal hair rustling like feathers, to cinch your shoulders within her surprisingly warm hands. She clicked her tongue severely and her eyebrows furrowed, swinging her head to meet the typically-imposing figure that had guided you here. His posture immediately seemed to shrink as her Edison-bulbs interrogated him with no words- if that was all it took to get him to seem less imposing, you would have liked for that idea to have popped into your head earlier. 

“Now, unless you have a good idea on how to pay for such a thing, I think we need to bring that one back to the drawing board, old friend.”

She guided you upwards. Her small frame was infinitely sturdy against your unstable one- surprisingly, you were the one shaking. Once you were upright, her arm was twined with yours, guiding you with gentle force to what you surmised to be a dining room with a beautifully adorned oaken table. Spiderman, Peter, followed like a dog just thrown out of the house for jumping on the table and nabbing a leg of turkey on Thanksgiving. His eyes were glued to the shining floor, hat still clutched in his large hands.

“Here you go, doll- go slow, now.” The woman didn’t let you go until she saw you sat down most assuredly on the cushioned seat. You couldn’t complain- her tone was gentle against your hurting head as much as it could be. Once she released you, your arms slithered onto the wood, collapsing around each other for your head to gently thump onto.

“No, Aunt May, that’s not what I-”

“Oh, really?” The sprightly woman was mirthy. Once she knew you were comfortable, she sprung to Peter.   
“Because the way I see it: you’ve brought me this poor thing, soaked to the bone and obviously hurting for some mysterious reason,” At that, she was mere inches from him, jabbing a pointer finger by his mask, “-And all I can help myself to do is offer them a warm cuppa and a soft bed. Now, tell me, what have you given this poor little bunny besides an arm’s full of unanswered questions?” She talked too fast for you, but somehow he was able to keep up with her fiery words.

“It’s not like that. I figured you could-”

“Oh, hush, Peter. You sound pitiful.” She shook her head, turning around as quickly as she talked and began to pad around to the kitchen in her house slippers.

His once-droopy demeanor faded into an indignant one as he waved a hand slightly with the beginning signs of agitation.  
“If you’d let me finish; I just.. Well.” He returned back to square one, overwhelmed with the intricacies of the situation and how to approach them. If there was one thing he couldn’t do well with anyone besides bank robbers and the Green Goblin, it was to initiate things. He sighed.

“She… She’s turning into me, Aunt May. I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

The encroaching clatter from the kitchen, trying to be as delicate as possible as to save your straining ears, paused. Her head peeked out from behind the door frame, much less mirthful than moments before. She could handle mysterious illnesses, mind control, even violent, attacking invaders- but this? This was new.

“... And you’re absolutely sure?” A grave nod was her only response. She clicked her tongue thoughtfully, slowly returning to her business with ceramic mugs and coffee grounds. Unfortunately for you- there’d have to be some heavy jabber going on before May could offer a bed.

“Well, you could have brought her here sooner. You of all people know that.” Her words nipped at his heels, and he just shook his head. Deciding for a moment where to land, Peter finally opted to join you at the fancily-decorated coffee table. The chair was scooted out, and only when he sat did he realize his aunt’s newest fervent hobby- ceramic collecting. They dotted the table and the surrounding room all the way down to a butter plate in the shape of a cow- bell and all. He tried to change the subject.

“I see you’re branching out with your decor.” His tone was in the realm of any friend’s so-how’s-the-wife-and-kids schtick. Something reservedly cheerful- like catching up at a Sunday brunch. He picked up and started inspecting a small figure of a boy in a baseball uniform, holding a bat like it weighed too much for him. 

“Don’t try to change the subject, dearest.” She came into view once more, three mugs prong-clasped in her left hand, and a steaming pot of black coffee in the other. Setting them on the table, she turned and roused you with a hand to your shoulder. Shadowed eyes met her own, questioning.

“Do you take milk or sugar? I hate to say it, but you may be stuck here for awhile, hon.”


End file.
